Epoch
by BlueJude
Summary: On the brink of death, Pony looks back on the past ten years of his life and feels sorry for all the pain and suffering he'd caused himself and his loved ones. All rights go to S. E. Hinton - The Outsiders is hers.
1. Pony

A/N: All rights go to S. E. Hinton. These are her characters. I just stole them to make up my own little story.

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Ponyboy

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Years. Ten since I've seen the lost eyes of an abused puppy dog. Since I've heard a hood's account on his latest robbery. Eight since I said my goodbyes to the movie star handsome face with the laughing shimmering eyes. Since I had tried to awkwardly shake the hand of one who was thought to hate me, but then was pulled into a brotherly hug. Six since I've heard the sarcastic jokes and bad puns of a drunken shoplifter. Since the worried anger of a loved one had made me feel warm. It all comes down to years. Thought to be just numbers indicating the passage of time, but to some they mean so much more.

I'd have to say, though, that there was never a time I had been this close to the brink of death. With all the past twenty-four years of my life whizzing by. I'd always scoffed at those who'd told me it was true. That you do see your life before your eyes the moment you die. Now I know they were right.

I see myself playing football with all those I had loved. The two adults standing on the porch holding affectionate ghostly smiles on their faces. Then there's my tenth birthday and I get those running tennis shoes I'd been dreaming of. The ones I'd been drooling over, sitting in that display case of the Nike shoe store. And the day three years later when a family of five is made three; made real by a simple phone call.

My lungs fill with water as I go back to the park. A soc is dead and two boys are left confused and scared. I feel the warmth of the fire, burning the church, and a sharp sting where a child bites me. The ringing in my head is unbearable as I watch the young teenagers we used to be, battling it out in a childish fight. The helplessness in my heart is true as I see the life snuffed out of my friend, lying in that hospital bed. The chagrin of passing out right after another goes down, roaming unconsciousness while I leave the others to suffer their alertness.

Then we're standing out on the front porch, and I'm making him promise to come back. And Soda smiles that smile and reassures me he'll be back, all limbs attached. I realize now he'd never specified he'd be living. I hug him, and I hug his best friend. They leave and I know nothing's ever going to be right after this. It's confirmed when a year later he is sent back in a black coffin, and Steve is reported MIA.

Feeling the panic of confusion in the middle of a high school party. No one wanting to call cops for fear of being arrested. I'm vaguely aware of strong arms encasing me and being thrown into a truck. I look over and my brother's there, crying just like me, as he drives me to the hospital. The vow I make then and there is kept. I haven't had drugs since.

And after that experience, I leave. I feel the complete bitterness now, the same as then, as I drive away, Two-Bit and Darry impassively meeting my eyes in the rear-view mirror. I haven't gone back since, and will never have the chance. Not after spending the last six years of my life living in the dark haunting basement of a doper. Not after heartlessly wrecking everything in sight, including the hearts of those who once loved me. And definitely not after walking into the blow that would prove to kill me.

As I'm lying in this alleyway, I feel sorry. I've disappointed every person I've ever wanted to please. My blood is pooling and I know I only have a minute left, and I wonder if Steve ever made it back, or if his fate was the same as Soda's. I wonder if Two-Bit ever got that job he'd been searching for, or if he'd still been bumming it around my old place. But the thought that haunts me the most, is my last. And it's of Darry. After all he's done for me, I can give him nothing except a bill for a gravestone.

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A/N: Well, what did you think? Terrible, amazing? Frightful, ingenious? Criticism is very welcome. I'm thinking of writing Pony's funeral inDarry's POV. What do you think? Dare I do it? Or leave this piece of work? Review, please.


	2. Darry

Darry

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Well, I suppose this means I will have to worry no more. Because my worst nightmare has made itself a reality. The gaze I fix on my little brother's lifeless form holds no emotions. I refuse to let them come. I've gotten good at piling them up and shoving them in an emotional box. A box, might I add, that has grown ten times in size since the night my parents were lost.

Oh God, I remember that night. The helplessness I felt. The loneliness. But it is nothing in comparison to that night seven years ago, when yet another family member was torn away. Leaving the other two in the picture with ridged edges. But now. Oh Lord. Now, that picture has been mangled and ripped beyond recognition, so that the one remaining figure is faded, creased, forgotten.

The hand on my shoulder is shaking and ice cold. I know Two-Bit is trying his best to suppress the sobs threatening to explode, but he fails miserably. Ten years was all it took for a gang of seven to become three. What the hell is this? I want to scream. What. The. Hell.

I can see the wounds clearly. And I want to murder the idiot that dealt them.

Pony. Oh God, Pony. It's the first time I've seen his face in six years, and he's lying in a damn coffin. I curse myself for not searching for him. For pretending not to care. Because, God, I cared. I can't even count the number of times I'd been in bed at night, wondering and worrying about that boy. The dreams I'd have being vivid, heart-wrenching pictures of him in a ditch, bloody and bruised. Well, they'd been almost right. The officer I'd talked to said they found him in an alleyway.

I haven't cried yet. I'm sure it'll come soon. How many times can you cry what you think is a million and one tears, till you have none left? I suppose I'll see when the next of us dies. Unless it's me. I have no objections.

Someone's standing on the other side of me. I look over to Steve, not surprised that he's here. I remember thanking the stars that he and Pony had truced for Soda to see. They did, after all, have at least one thing in common: they were loved most by him.

I'm so thankful for both Steve and Two-Bit. They could get me going on the days that I'd felt so sick of my life that I'd want to crawl under the sheets and die. They could get me to smile on nights that I felt as though the weight of the world was dragging my lips down. There was only one thing they couldn't do: bring my baby brothers home to me.

Should I have gotten to see Ponyboy before he died, I like to think I'd have gone straight up to him and hugged him. But I know me. I would have been my stubborn vacuum-packed self and turned my back. I would think to how selfish I'd thought he was, and terrible accusations would come forth in my mind. All of that is gone. What's left is a guilty pleading. Like a broken record player. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _I'm sorry._

My eyes tear up at the regret I feel, and I think I'm getting softer as the years go on. I would have never cried in front of the guys before. The first time I ever had was at Soda's funeral. Only Two-Bit was there for that part. Steve didn't return for a few years, and I'd never told Pony. The second Steve came through my door I'd burst into tears. If anyone had asked about him before, I'd told them he was dead. He'd gone with Soda. But here he is. Without Soda. Without Dallas, Johnny. Ponyboy.

And after all the grief that boy caused me in the past twenty-four years, I'd give most anything to have him back.


	3. Two-Bit

A/N: So, uh, here's Two-Bit's take. I really don't anything about this. I just wrote this, and I wasn't really paying attention to any of it. If you feel like reviewing with a "What the eff!" please, feel free. I invite the words into my inbox. All rights go to S. E. Hinton. These are her characters. I just stole them to make up my own little story.

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Two-Bit

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As my mind wanders, focusing on anything but the truth before me, I think to all those black boxes. Black boxes that show up on black days, that people show up to look at in black dress clothes. Black boxes that I'd seen way too many friends lay in. Dally, Johnny, Sodapop. Ponyboy. Damn. We're back at the truth.

I glance to my right, and Darry looks serene. He's been through too much. Enough to kill a man. He hasn't moved his gaze since I got here; I'm not sure if even noticed my arrival.

I want to puke; instead I place my hand on Darry's shoulder, showing my support. God, Ponyboy.

I can still remember the last time I saw him… six years ago. I was pissed. He was leaving fortune behind him; heading towards the black sea of anxiety, insecurity. He didn't know what he had, only what he didn't. At one time, I'd of described him as introspective, intelligent. Yeah, compared to my left ass.

He called me once, about a year after he'd gone. I remember screaming at him. The names I'd called him. Dumbass. Dipshit. He really seemed ignorant on the subject of Darry. Did he really think Darry hated him? Or did he just not care?

I never told Darry about the phone call. It would've made him feel that much worse.

Pony told me he'd been living in Philadelphia. He'd gotten a job. I asked when he was planning on coming home. He never answered.

Shortly after the call, Steve reappeared. When I'd showed up at Darry's, walking in on their embrace, both shedding tears, I thought I'd been dreaming. I remember wishing with all I had that Pony would magically show up. We'd all enjoy that.

And Steve's question. "Where's the kid?"

Pony was all Darry had left. When their parents had gone, it was bad. But they had each other. They were brothers united. It wasn't impossible for them to be happy, even without their parents. And then Soda came back from the war.

I can still hear Pony, frantic, the night of the call. "They got the wrong Soda. It's not our Soda. He's too tough to die over there." The kid was always trying to deny what was reality, make it fantasy.

And my reply. "Who else in this goddamned world has the name Sodapop?" Sorrow makes me deaf to cruelty.

The math is simple. Seven minus four equals three. It's when you add the names, the people to the numbers that it goes deeper. I look at Steve, at Darry, and can contain myself no more. I cry.

Pony broke the camel's back. No pun intended.

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A/N: Well, what did you think? Terrible, amazing? Frightful, ingenious? Criticism is very welcome. Thanks so much for reading! I know, it's dumb. Thank you, Maddy, for shoving this stupid piece of crap half-assed shitwad into the wonderful world of fanfiction. I bow, I bow, I bow to thee. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, I applaud you at your effort to enjoy my work. G'day to you all.


	4. Steve

Okay, so I know I marked this story as complete a long time ago, but I reread it the other day and I just felt like this was missing. Steve has a life after all this too and I felt like his voice needed to be heard too. I don't know if I've captured it perfectly or whatever, but here it is. All rights go to S. E. Hinton. These are her characters. I just stole them to make up my own little story.

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Steve

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I thought 'Nam was fucking hard. And it was. It sucked. As much as I like to play the hard ass, if I'm being truthful, it fucked with every aspect of my life. But the shittiest part was losing Sodapop. I didn't even know he was dead until I came back and only two of my buddies were there waiting for me. Welcome home Steve. And as much as envied the kid then, for escaping, running from all the shit that came from staying, I sure as hell ain't jealous now, looking at his bloodless body lying before me.

But I'm pissed. I really am. I mean, damn it, Soda's bones are probably dust by now, the kid's fucking dead, about to become one with the ground, and Darry's next to me here staring at his youngest brother's corpse. I look to the sky and wonder.

When Soda's parents died, I felt for the family. As much as I hated that kid, as much as I scowled and shrugged and feigned indifference, I thought it was pretty fucked up considering they were the only decent adults I'd ever encountered. Then when Dally and Johnny died, I chalked it up to be some bad luck, maybe some shitty karma Dal had coming after all the shit stunts he'd pulled. But now. Now I know we're cursed. I have no other explanation and it makes me feel better being able to cuss something out, blame something. Some sick, twisted, little shit in the sky laughing at a couple of pathetic grown greasers.

I stare at Pony's white face and wish he would wake up for one minute, just so I could kill him again. Except I wouldn't do it. I'd try to sustain that life until my own heart gave. I remember Soda when he dropped out of school explaining to the kid how he wasn't smart like him. Bullshit. Darry might have seen something in him, Soda and Two-Bit too, but I've always known how dim the little shit was. He leaves his only family behind to live in some shit hole and then finds himself stabbed to death. Either he was really stupid or sincerely didn't care. I like to think it's the first option for Darry and Soda's sake.

I catch myself sometimes at work, at the DX, tinkering under a car and asking Soda, Hand me that wrench will ya? And when there's no reply I silently ask the stands to give and end me too. And then I think of Two-Bit and Darry burying me next to my best friend and I feel ashamed. I think this is worse, though.

Pony's been gone for six years. Longer than I've been back. The last time I saw him Soda was beaming and I was embarrassed as we left ourselves behind and dived into hell. And I don't think Darry has ever given up hope. I'd walk into that cold, silent house and see Darry staring at the picture on the mantle. I'd see that look on his face, the desperate look that disappeared when he caught sight of me. Soda never had a chance, but the kid was out there somewhere, and Darry was waiting. Though it was sooner than I expected, I'm the only one that guessed he'd be dead the next time Superman saw him.

There's another picture up there too. Of a bunch of juvenile hoods. If anything can make me smile these days, it's that picture. Two-Bit doesn't crack too many jokes anymore.

I look at the two of them. Darry looks tired and sad, like he's given up. I'm sure he has. Pony was the only thing he had left to fight for. And Two-Bit's finally lost it. His body shakes and a sorrow as deep as four dead friends pours out.

And then there's me. On my way home from 'Nam, I'd wondered if Pony and I could actually become friends; I had a new perspective on life. But when I came back to find two Curtis brothers gone, I realized I'd never know.

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A/N: Well, what did you think? Terrible, amazing? Frightful, ingenious? Criticism is very welcome. I'm sick and it's midnight. Please excuse any mistakes... or the entire passage if you'd like. Anyway, I've always liked Steve so I don't know why I wrote this two years late.


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